


Take Two

by FrozenPenguin



Category: Kingsman (Movies), Kingsman: The Secret Service RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-08 19:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7771093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenPenguin/pseuds/FrozenPenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: I need a modernized Prince and the Pauper fic, featuring Eggsy Unwin and Taron Egerton and Hartwin (or Firtherton).</p><p>Taron Egerton bumps into his suit-clad doppelganger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solarift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarift/gifts).



> For the lovely Solarift! This is my first SS challenge. I hope it turned out ok! x

**Secret Santa: Take Two**

The first words people  _ usually _ exchange right after bumping into one another  _ normally _ goes along the lines of “pardon me” or “whoops, how clumsy of me” or even “oi, watch where you’re going, mate” (the later a popular choice in several areas of London). Taron’s first hint that this encounter was going to be anything but  _ ordinary _ was probably how this stranger’s choice of words was as eloquent as a disbelieving,

“Holy-- _ fucking hell. _ ”

Well then.

But what’s more befuddling than this exclamation in lieu of a proper apology, or even an insult, is how he next looks up to see an exact swear-to-god carbon copy of, well, himself.

From the strange greenish mixture that is his eye colour to the pattern of moles creeping up from the stranger’s crisp shirt collar, up his jawline to his cheeks; everything about this man is like looking into a mirror--a mirror where he appears dressed in a sleek pinstriped suit with his hair parted and slicked back in a way he’s only worn it for those special occasions (school prom, wedding of an estrange relative, etcetera).

And, whatmore, when the stranger speaks, the voice that comes out is the same exact one Taron has heard time and again when playing back his recordings for auditions and voice samples in drama school.

“Merlin, are you clocking this? I’m not the only one seeing--oh, bloody hell,” the stranger swears as he touches his face, feeling for something that’s not there. A hands-free device maybe?

“Excuse me,” Taron finally finds his voice. “But--holy cow, you look--I mean, are we--”

“--mirror images of each o’ver?” the man finishes, cracking a wry smile. His accent is deeply London, born and bred, the kind Taron could only imitate after three-four years living in the city. “Pretty much, yeah.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Fuck...this is ridiculous. How is this even--”

“Possible? Dunno, but I ain’t really got the time to come around for a pint and compare family trees right now--” In that moment, as if to accentuate the claim, a group of angry looking men in stuffy black clothes come running around the corner, waving swear-to-god  _ guns _ around them and shouting intimidatingly at the sight of them. His stranger-doppelganger quickly asserts the situation, takes a hold of his shoulders and shoves him forward. “Anyway, I really hope you can run.  _ Go! _ ”

What follows is the wildest goosechase he has ever participated in, taken straight out of an action flick (and he has certainly never imagined played the part of the  _ goose _ ). Taron follows the stranger the best he can, taking shortcuts through London’s back alleys and jumping over fences to attempt to throw their pursuers--well, his doppelganger's pursuers--off their trail, and about three minutes in Taron thanks his lucky stars (and his personal trainer) for the months he has just spent getting fit for his role in Matthew Vaughn’s hush-hush spy-flick.

A minute later, they come to a stop to catch their breaths, and Taron can’t but wonder how this stranger is hardly frased from running around in a suit on a hot summer day. In fact, Taron is already breathing heavily, building up a sweat in his own light shirt and jeans.

“Think we lost them?”

“Nah, not yet,” the stranger says, just as one of their pursuers rounds the corner, and they’re off again.

The chase continues, but no matter what they do they can’t seem to shake them.

After what feels like an hour of fruitless flight, Taron can taste blood mingling with his spit, unpleasantly. “This isn’t working.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock,” his doppleganger bites back. Even he is looking a bit breathed now, sweat starting to break out across his brow.

“We’ve gotta think of something else,” he insists. “Get away in a cab, lose them on the tube--why the fuck are they following you anyway?”

“...yeah, that could work,” the stranger murmurs, completely ignoring his question.

Then, he’s shrugging off his jacket and pushing it on Taron. “Hey, what the--mate, why’re you giving it to me? I can’t run with this on!”

“It’s protection, bulletproof--yeah, I know a bit James Bond, innit? Just, trust me, ok? They’re dangerous these guys, I ain’t takin’ the piss, a’ight?”

While the entire situation has him feeling a bit off his rocker, there is a sort of genuine sincerity and to the man’s plea, as if he is genuinely concerned with his well being. In the end, Taron ends up wriggling into the jacket that--surprisingly--fits him very well.

Only then does he notice the hollisters on the stranger’s lower back. “Are those real guns?”

The click as his doppelganger switches off the safety is answer enough. He feels the tell tale signs of panic mixing with the adrenaline already rushing in his veins.

“And those guys too, they’ve got--why hasn’t anyone--”

“Ok, look,” his rambles are cut off sharply. “I’m going to lead them off, and I need you to get into a cab soon as you can, and  _ go _ . If they think you’re me--and well,  _ I _ thought you were for a second there--you probably won’t end up so pretty when they’re done with you, you get me?”

Taron swallows. “A bit narcissistic, saying that to me.”

The stranger grins. “Don’t I know it. Look at us--we’re  _ well fit _ , mate.”

He snorts. He likes this guy, and wouldn’t mind going for a pint with him sometimes. Although, he muses, he doesn’t even know his name.

Before that can be rectified, the stranger sets off towards where they came from, sending Taron towards the main street to find a cab, as instructed. He runs as fast as he can, even with his muscles burning and lungs aching for air. Moments later, he hears gunfire from the alley he’s just left, feeling a pang of panic and anxiousness for the man who might have just literally sacrificed his own safety for his.

Waving down a cab takes him literally no time at all. In fact, the moment he steps out onto the street, one pulls up next to him, and he opens the door, throwing himself into the back seat.  _ “ _ Go, go go  _ go _ , just  _ go! _ ” he urges the driver, and the car is already moving.

Only after catching his breath does he realise that this cab is  _ nothing _ like any London cab he’s ever been in, be it after a drunken night out or on his way to the station to take a train home to Aber. The interior is sleek, carpeted with beige leather seats. A selection of drinks in  _ glass decanters _ are displayed in front of him. A flap separates him from the driver, a strange circular emblem decorating it.

Taron feels like he shouldn’t really be in this car. He hasn’t even told the driver where to go,  _ bloody hell. _

However, before he can gather the wits about him to ask the driver to stop, that there must have been a mistake, the car stops in front of a shop. Upon closer inspection, it seems to be a tailor’s shop, gold letters on the display window announcing it as “Kingsman” tailors. The cab door clicks open, and suddenly a voice booms through the speakers.

_ “Galahad, get inside. We’ve dispatched a team to deal with the mess, and you and I need to have a chat about self preservation and misplacing my tech.” _

It’s an intimidating Scottish brogue, and Taron is too shaken from everything that’s happened as the adrenalin is wearing off to do anything but obey, get out of the car and stumble shakily into the shop.

He hesitates as he opens the door, stepping into the empty room, decorated with fabrics and ties, and whatever else a bespoke suit shop probably usually displays. There are antiques and mirrors and more amber drink in crystal decanters. It’s like stepping into a museum, of sorts.

The mannequins are all adorned with what must be the latest in bespoke trends and fashions. It takes Taron a moment to realise that one of them is wearing the very same jacket he has donned, of identical fabric and cut.

A door opens, and for a short second Taron is a hundred percent certain that it’s  _ Colin _ who’s walked into the room. The man shares so many of his co-star’s features, from his thin lips to his dark eyes and handsome jawline, and only miniscule differences really do them apart - the shade of their hair, and perhaps how they hold themselves.

But the intensity of their deep stare is nearly identical, and the man is looking right at him, as if all the world has come before him.

“Eggsy,” the man near breathes, and quickly strides up to Taron’s side. Before he can say otherwise, say he’s, indeed,  _ not  _ an ‘Eggsy’, strong hands firmly grip his shoulders and he is promptly, well,  _ snogged  _ by the Colin-look-alike.

And bloody hell, once the stunning effect it has on him wears off enough for him to actually feel the passion behind the lips moving against his, it is one of the best damn kisses he has ever had.

They part a moment later with Taron too shocked to form a coherent sentence beyond “um.”

The man is still looking at him passionately, a large, calloused hand stroking his face and his jaw moves as if he’s about to say something, when the door opens and, lo and behold, his  _ doppelganger _ comes barging into the room.

The man--the Colin-look-alike--has snapped into attention, frozen in place as he registers the newcomer, eyes moving quickly between the two and a frown growing on his face. His doppelganger has by now seen them standing in a very compromising situation, a bemused grin growing on  _ his  _ face, in contrast to “Colin’s” frown. “Well, don’t stop on my account. Bloody hell Harry, one of me isn’t enough for you? You sly fox.”

“ _ Eggsy, _ ” the older man,  _ Harry _ , seems to catch up, immediately letting go of Taron. “This is--well, this is quite an embarrassing mix-up, I’m afraid. Though I would think I should have been made aware of the existence of your… twin brother?”

“Yeah, no--don’t have none of those, last time I checked. But he looks just like me, he does. Wicked, innit? Didn’t even notice, did you.”  _ Eggsy _ \--whatever sort of name that is--grins even more widely, if possible.

“And I apologise dearly, darling. Although your lack of jealousy is oddly disappointing.”

“Yeah?” Eggsy says, slowly sliding up to them, placing his hand on Harry’s, fingers tracing his wrist. A very significant touch. There is absolutely no doubt that these men are more to each other than co-workers. “You like me jealous, then? I can be jealous.”

“ _ Gentlemen, _ ” the voice Taron recognises from the car suddenly joins them in the room, and a tall, bald man in a cosy jumper has more or less popped out from the wallpaper. The contrast between his stern features and wooly apparel is truly something out of a movie. “Need I remind you, there is still the issue of our inconvenient visitor at hand?”

As if on cue, Taron is the centre of attention.

The scotsman hums, looking down at the tablet in his hand. “Mr Taron David Egerton, recent graduate of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts. Born in November 1989, blood type O+. While relatively unknown at the moment, is set to star in several upcoming films…”

“Wait, he’s an actor?” Eggsy pipes up from next to him. “Bloody well done!” He receives an enthusiastic slap to his shoulder, and mumbles a stunned “cheers” back, too busy wondering how the scotsman has discovered so much about him in a matter of mere minutes--without even knowing his name.

“An actor, and also,” he continues, “ _ not supposed to be here _ . We’ll follow protocol and administer a two hour dose. He should be back in his flat and back to his work come morning with no recollection of this. Agent, if you will?”

Eggsy sighs, fiddling with the dials on his wrist watch while Taron slowly realises something unpleasant is going to happen to him. “Sorry ‘bout that, mate. It’s been aces.”

He looks around the room, about to protest whatever they are going to do with him, meeting Eggsy’s still somewhat humoured smirk, the stern expression of the scotsman and the somewhat concerned frown from Colin--well,  _ Harry _ .

Something pricks his neck, and everything blacks out.

-

Taron looks up at Colin during one of the scenes they’re filming together (which some of the crew has lovingly dubbed the post-coital breakfast scene), thinking for a moment that there is something eerily familiar with the way he is standing, all suited up and poised--very much in character. Without much further ado, he voices a question that has been nagging on him ever since they started filming, really.

“Hey, Colin. You haven’t ever… dreamt of kissing your co stars?”

There is a bit of a glimt in the older man’s eyes that looks almost mischievous in the current lighting. But he hums nonchalantly, just barely suppressing the twitch of his lip threatening to bloom into a full smile. “I suppose this is where I channel my character and respond with ‘A gentleman does not kiss and  _ tell, _ my dear boy’.”

Somehow, Taron almost hears,  _ my darling. _

The crew is bustling away to give room for the camera men. Colin shrugs off his jacket to prepare for the next take, and Taron can’t help but look at him, stunned.

“ _ Colin _ ,” he says, awed. “You’ve got  _ pecs _ , mate.”


End file.
